Elizabeth tried to find Edwards the next morning, but he was not in the cafeteria—why would he be? That would be even more depressing, to come into the huge room every day for a lonely breakfast.
Fine. Elizabeth's office was two levels down. She took the stairs, got to the blue door, typed the code, then activated the lever. Half a circle to the left, pull. The lever thing, by the way. The woman who copyrighted it at first, she made a fortune, zombies cannot activate levers, you see. Then her idea was stolen and copied everywhere in the world, as it should be. But still, she got rich; now she lives on a boat, they say. A highly secured one, other boats deliver food, and she never goes on shore.
Anyway. Welcome to the office! Empty conference rooms, empty cubicles, empty chairs.
Elizabeth turned on her own tiny light on her desk. The rest of the room remained dark. The lighting system had been disabled three months ago for budgeting reasons.
"Sorry about that," Coulson had said on the radio, at the time. "They're morons."
"I'm alone in aisle S, so why would I need all the lights, right?" Elizabeth had answered that day, lounging on the sophisticated, comfortable beige chair of the communication room. "Just a waste, that's what they think, I'm sure. But working alone in the dark… They don't get it."
"I do," Coulson said. And thank God for him. Thank God for his slow, calm tone, even when he could not help her, being heard, it did the trick. "Again, sorry. I fought it and lost."
Elizabeth did not care about the lights now, she cared about the CV-17 door. Intranet. PM to Edwards. No answer, just like the first time she tried, after the evac. To be fair, he might not get her messages; he had been transferred, maybe his handle had changed.
Looking for the guy manually. Henry Edwards, Caste level 1.0, file entirely redacted. Great. Current mission statement: entirely redacted. Current assignment: Building Two, LT zone, aisle V, lab 45.
It would be quite a trip. Elizabeth would not get work done this morning, but this was an emergency. How much of one was still left to determine.
Elizabeth finished her coffee, and began her long walk to Building Two, LT zone, Aisle V, Lab 45.
-XX-
The Center was an ensemble of three huge buildings connected by aerial walkways and underground passages. Elizabeth couldn't use the latter, the labs downstairs were classified zones, clearance red or purple—the security had been heightened since the elevator "zombie and coffee" incident. Fortunately, Edwards's new digs were in the LT zone, not classified, which implied a sort of demotion, by the way. But Elizabeth did not have the time or the desire to care.
It was a long walk. Elizabeth's building, Building Three, was two miles long, to give you an idea of the scale. She had not even left it yet, she was just walking down a corridor in Aisle C when she heard the noise.
A shuffling noise behind a red door.
Shuffling.
Shuffling was not good. Shuffling was very very bad.
The red door was not marked, it could have led to anything really, an office, a closet, the entrance to a different part of the building with a dozen new corridors, elevators and labs, except it had red clearance, so she could not access it. Or even check the digital blueprints back in the office—the area would be redacted.
Elizabeth stepped closer. Not too close.
"Edwards?" she asked.
No answer.
More shuffling.
Like…the wind blowing a curtain? Some malfunctioning machinery? Nope, like someone or something was dragging her/his/its feet; yes, yes, Elizabeth was aware of all the obvious possibilities.
Protocols. There were protocols exactly for this. A white light was blinking in the control panel, meaning "locked." Meaning, "this door, this ominous red door is very much locked, I swear to God, people, it's locked, ok? Do not panic." Zombies did not have security codes, zombies could not operate levers, this was reassuring at least.
Bag. Safety kit.
Orientation, four years ago. "You don't go outside, you don't walk around in the Center without thick clothes, gloves, collars, and your safety kits. Never, do you understand? Not even to take a piss! Not even to get a fucking coffee refill! You always, always have your safety kits with you, fucking understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"You, the woman, what's your name?"
"Elizabeth! Sir!"
"Are you listening?"
"I swear to God, I am."
"Well fucking look like it!"
"Sir yes sir!"
"Better not sassing me. Now let's get to the doors. If you really have to go outside, I mean, if you fucking job really calls for it—"
Elizabeth took her black marker out of the safety kit. She walked to the red door. The shuffling had subsided, so she wrote in bold, big letters "CONTAMINATED DOOR" and then "possibly", then the time and the date, before resuming her walk to go find Edwards.
-XX-
He saw her waving behind the LT zone glass door and opened it right away.
"We have two problems," Elizabeth said. "May amount to nothing. Sir."
Edwards's face was not haughty anymore, just worried.
"Tell me."
-XX-
You'd think the shuffling behind the red door would be the more urgent business, but after a short talk they decided the CV-17 door issue needed handling first. Because if the security protocols were malfunctioning and the system had not detected it, then how many other devices were malfunctioning—and they had no way to know?
"This is indeed slightly concerning," Edwards stated, after Elizabeth's explanations.
"I admire your talent for understatement," was her answer, and Edwards smiled, just a little, but his eyes were, well, concerned.
-XX-
On their way to the System Room, they had to pass alongside the red door again. And here it was, with the CONTAMINATED, then the (possibly) in brackets, all in Elizabeth's energetic handwriting.
Edwards looked at the door. At Elizabeth. At the door again. "Shuffling?"
"Indeed." If Edwards was throwing "indeeds" in casual conversation, so could she.
He stepped forward to listen. Elizabeth followed him. Nothing, not a sound. "Are you sure?" he asked.
"No, not really. It could have been some unrelated noise, that my brain translated into a threat. Or it could have been nothing, paranoia playing tricks on me."
Edwards did not answer. "You disapprove, sir," Elizabeth said, letting irony float around her "sir". "You think I should not have used the kit if—"
"I do not disapprove in the slightest. You did the right thing."
His answer was duly appreciated. Other red caste members might have waved their bracelets around and mocked her decision, just to show superiority.
"Remember orientation?" Edwards continued. "'Even the shadow of a doubt,' the lieutenant said. The smallest suspicion and you alert everyone."
"You had a lieutenant? So unfair. We had a thick, disagreeable sergeant, with no sense of humour whatsoever."
Edwards did not answer, but maybe it was just his way. They resumed their walk toward the System Room, lab territory, inaccessible for Elizabeth in normal times. There were two set of elevators, the normal ones for peons, stopping at Level Two, and the special ones, reserved for scientists, going further down. Edwards led them down, handling his high-level codes like a pro.
The doors opened. Level One. Forbidden land. No zombies, but another series of corridors and codes. The System Room was just a huge office with a series of huge computers humming. Lights worked;
Elizabeth chose a station and worked her magic, everything was easier with Edwards's red clearance.
She asked and was answered.
"All security measures, active."
Liar.
"I am launching a complete security diagnostic," Elizabeth announced, Edwards standing at her side, watching her typing at the speed of light. The system obligingly expressed in Arial 14 that the diagnostic was launched, it would take seventy-two hours, more or less, thank you for your patience, you can leave now.
"Ok," she whispered. Edwards did not say anything.
The moment stretched, awkward. Elizabeth opened Security and Work Protocols, entered the data, and got: "Estimated level of threat: 0,5. No direct physical danger. No change in normal procedures."
Translation: "Get back to work."
Elizabeth looked up.
"Ok." A pause. "See you in seventy-two hours. I guess?"
-XX-
Back at her desk.
Dear Ms. Moore,
We have not received your completed reports owed by Tuesday, 5pm, nor have the necessary daily administrative tasks been checked. If you are sick, or unable to work, you are to file a request for sick or emergency leave and wait for it to be approved. If you do not file such a request, and your tasks are not completed, and additional information is not given, you will be considered as having abandoned your post.
The Center being subject to MMR (Modified Military Rules), after two warnings, we will consider you a deserter and proceed accordingly, including penal pursuits and the obligation to restrain the necessary resources.
Best regards,
Obnoxious Petty McRightfulness,
Human Resources, military affairs and collaborations, Emergency Research Office, Lost Area 7.
The mail would have been darkly funny, if "penal pursuits for desertion" did not mean "death penalty" and "restraining the necessary resources" did not mean "shutting off water and electricity."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Elizabeth knew this was coming and knew how to counter it. She rearranged her schedule for the work to be estimated at the end of Thursday, which gave her the time to get back on track.
Coffee, with honey. It gave the coffee a strange taste, but Elizabeth loved it.
She looked at the digital blueprints, but as she thought, the classified zone behind the "shuffling" red door was, well classified.
Then, work.
-XX-
Seventy hours to go before diagnostic.
Maybe Elizabeth should have reached out. To Edwards, in the system room, during the awkward pause.
"Hey, why don't we grab a cup of coffee at the cafeteria? Sir?"
To debrief, to talk about the mysterious red door. To get to know each other.
"So, how long have you been in the Center, what did you do before, in the real world, remember that tomato-mustard pie they served on Wednesday in Cafeteria One, do you want to hear about the history of the Silk Road, Silks Roads, plural, have you ever met Châvi in accounting, the one who said she'd read your future in chamomile leaves, then laughed if you fell for it?"
But Edwards was—he did not seem like the chatting type. Still, wasn't it in Elizabeth's interest to make friends?
Focusing on work was difficult.
The three grey, gigantic, concrete buildings of the Center. Inside the grey, she and Edwards; their two little silhouettes. Two black shadows with a little golden soul, pulsing. And the mystery red door, pulsing too, in a whole different way.
-XX-
Ok. Spiraling.
Stop.
-XX-
"Do you think that the living conditions of your preadolescent years—the circumstances of the, hum, of the disappearance of your parents…"
Purple dress, the customary jade earrings. Ms. Chettouf, still sucking as a therapist. Didn't you have to really say things aloud, to use the real words, to be able to process the events?
"The deaths. The deaths of my parents."
"Yes, quite, Elizabeth—may I call you Elizabeth? The unusual circumstances of your parents' demises…"
Their deaths were not even that unusual, not in the darkest year of a zombie apocalypse, sorry, an aborted zombie apocalypse. Civilization did not fall, after all. Humanity was back in business. Many people died like Elizabeth's parents did, not a big deal, not a deal at all. Nothing, nope, did not matter, not in the long run.
War, children.
"Your obsession with colors, Elizabeth," Ms. Chettouf continued. "The way you see them as 'fighting the grey'… This is an unusual mind metaphor, which could be considered as a sign of early depression."
"I am not depressed."
"Not yet."
Worst. Therapist. Ever.